


A Lily for the Sceptre

by anomalousity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is the lead detective on a manhunt for the killer known only as 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lily for the Sceptre

It was gradual. A body here, a couple decapitated heads there, remnants of limbs; nothing out of the ordinary aside from the numbers and the wide spread distribution across the entirety of the United States.

Of course, the little sigil, a small _13_ splayed over the chests and wrists of each victim served as the connection.

Dean’s eyes scan over his notes, his nose wrinkling at the killer known only as 13’s latest victims. A family had been strung up in Clyde, California. The woman, a pretty young thing in her third trimester of pregnancy, had been spread wide over a makeshift cross, her blonde hair draped over her face in such a way that it gave the impression of a glowing halo. Her arms surrounded the fetus within her, mockingly caressing the bulge that had been marked with the killer’s insignia.

The man had been decapitated, his left arm tossed into the pool in their back yard. The couple’s only child had been hung from a fan, small limbs still twitching when they found the body.

Dean rubs a hand over his eyes before standing. 13 has been causing quite a stir at headquarters. The only evidence they have of the man is the fact that they know he’s male. A picture of him leaked from a small bar in Salt Lake City, and Dean is reluctant to admit he’s a looker. Tousled head of dark hair, intelligent blue eyes.

What had really gotten him though was the knowing upturn of the man’s lips.

Since he saw the picture, Dean found himself motivated by the handsome man, surprised that the almost jovial looking person was responsible for nearly seventy deaths spread throughout America.

“Find anything?” Dean glances up into the eyes of Victor Hendrickson, his strong arms folded over his chest. Dean shakes his head, turning his attention back to his notes. The furthest he’s gotten is a vague prediction as to where 13 is headed next. He believes he’ll head north, up into Washington near the peninsula.

“He’s headed north,” Dean mutters, scratching the back of his head. “Probably off to Seattle. There’s a man-” Dean holds the picture up, drawing his finger over the fair haired man with his arm around 13’s shoulders. “Gabriel Novak who lives up there. Looks to be one of 13’s buddies.”

Dean doesn’t tell him that he’s planning on heading up there later that evening. Of course, the thought occurs to him after Hendrickson walks away, strong shoulders shifting under his thin shirt. Dean watches his wake before grabbing his things and heading out for the day. Charlie raises an inquisitive brow at his nod but otherwise says nothing.

“See you, Dean,” she says as he ducks out.

He’s on the road pounding pavement not two hours later, changed out of his suit and into a pair of loose fitting jeans and a Doors shirt. Zeppelin spills from the impala’s radio, screeching through the barren highways as he passes the California state boundary.

Dean hasn’t really voice it to any of his coworkers, but he believes Novak is 13’s family. Maybe a brother, going by the set in the eyes, the same smirk draped over his face. He looked up Novak’s address, finding he lives in a high rise apartment on the coast.

The sun is just starting to rise when Dean crosses the border into Washington, knowing full well that his foot has been pressing harsh and fast on the accelerator. The smell of ocean brine and fish fills the air, and Dean cranks down the window, eager to wash the scent of San Francisco industry off his skin.

His veins are buzzing with anticipation; not to arrest the man. Dean has long since given up that notion. Rather, he wants to talk to him, to see him, to study him, even. Or, if Dean is being completely honest, to _touch_ him. There’s something entrancing about the man’s blue eyes, about the way he’s almost taunting Dean through the lens of the camera, as though saying, “Come get me, Winchester.”

And he intends to do just that.

He drives through suburban Seattle, just beginning to wake. The sun crests over the horizon, rays warming the impala as Dean drives west. The houses grow closer together, taller, and Dean passes over a bridge that leads him into the city. His heart is thudding faster than he’d like to admit, and he continues on, knowing exactly which turns and streets will get him to Novak’s apartment quicker.

It’s smaller than he’d expected. Dean parks at the curb and steps into the morning. Already people are streaming out of their apartments and off to work; Dean ducks into the building to avoid being swept into the crowd.

The receptionist glances up upon his entrance. She offers him a board glance before raising a brow. “Who’re you here for?” she asks, not bothering with general niceties and introductions.

“Novak,” Dean answers just as tersely.

“Thirteenth floor,” she replies, turning her attention back to her monitor. He doesn’t let her passivity rupture his high; he damn near sprints to the elevator, anxiously hitting the button, foot tapping harshly over the pavement.

The resultant ding stirs a smile onto his features.

He steps into the warm cabin, hitting the button for ‘13’ and feeling the energy bubble in his gut. He’s so close; so damn close to meeting 13. So close to finding out who the mystery man is; so close to talking to him, seeing what makes him tick.

When the doors open, he doesn’t expect the wave of nerves.

Hesitantly, he steps out of the elevator, his footsteps close and wavering. He sees the apartment door; an unassuming green thing that does nothing to hint at the wonder resting within. Dean forces his shoulders to straighten, pumps feigned resolve into his veins before raising a fist to the door.

He only knocks twice.

“It’s fucking seven in the morning!” Dean recoils at the sound of an angry voice, subconsciously taking a step away from the door.

“Quiet down, Gabe,” another voice says. “You’ll wake the neighbors.”

And Dean just knows; the smooth baritone with a white hot glow burning underneath. Dean can picture the bright blue of his eyes before he even opens the door. His tall stature clothed only in a pair of plaid boxers, his tousled hair almost obscene.

It’s 13.

And Dean has no idea what to say.

“Hello,” 13 says, even smiling a bit. Dean almost feels his jaw drop to the floor when 13 raises a hand to his bed head, smoothing down the errant dark strands before offering Dean another grin. “What can I do for you?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer with some bullshit about being a travelling salesman when Gabe’s angry voice resounds from within the apartment. “Cas, where’s breakfast?” Dean catches a brief flash of golden hair passing behind 13 before he turns his attention back to the blue eyed man.

He receives an apologetic smile, and Dean can’t believe that this man is the most infamous serial killer in history.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks, tilting his head. “I just need to sort something out with my brother.”

Dean nods before shuffling into the warm apartment. The walls are decorated with pristine photography, some priceless paintings, and a few pieces of calligraphy signed only _C.N_. Dean lets his eyes trial over the intricate designs, wondering if they’re 13’s making.

“Coffee?” The raspy voice pulls him from his doze, and he turns to find Cas put on a shirt. The ridiculous boxers are still uncovered. He holds a mug in his hand, his arm outstretched in Dean’s direction.

Dean takes it, pulling in a long sip before turning his attention back to Cas.

“Thanks,” he replies, following as Cas walks into the living room. The apartment is fascinating; lavish artwork and abstract decor coat nearly every surface of the walls. The furniture is obviously high end; Dean perches on the edge of a white chair, quickly gulping down the dredges of his coffee as Cas takes a seat across from him on the couch.

“So,” he murmurs, quietly picking at a croissant. “What’s your name?”

Dean slumps into his chair, feeling oddly sluggish. He raises a hand to swipe some sweat from his brow before answering. “It’s Dean.” Stars dance in his vision and a thought occurs to him

_What was in the coffee?_

Cas smiles before pushing himself from his seat, placing the plate on a nearby table. “Well, Dean, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Castiel.” He crosses the room and crouches beside Dean. His fingers push at Dean’s in a weak handshake. “You know why I’m telling you this, yeah?”

He tries to nod his head; it doesn’t move.

“I’m afraid this will be the first and last time we see each other, Dean.” Castiel pushes himself out of his crouch before retreating to the other side of the room, retrieving his plate from the table. “I do regret this, don’t get me wrong. You have such a pretty face.”

A cold shiver runs down Dean’s back when his lungs stop moving. Panic creeps into his veins as his lungs struggle to no avail. All the while, Castiel smiles at him, pretty lips stretched politely as he watches Dean suffocate.

Black spots dawn in Dean’s vision, white noise resounding in his ears. His eyelids don’t flutter, not like in the movies. Rather, everything sort of dims. Calms. He feels like he’s underwater.

The last thing he sees is Castiel’s wicked grin.

 

 


End file.
